Dutch soprano Eva-Maria Westbroek will return to the Royal Opera House to sing the role of Santuzza in Pietro Mascagni's Cavalleria rusticana. It's a return she's extremely excited for:

'I think Cavalleria rusticana is one of the most wonderful operas ever written. It's so passionate, real and exciting', she says. 'It has you on the edge of your seat.'

'Santuzza is a woman who's been betrayed by a lover. She then betrays him and it goes horribly wrong. To sing these big duets is just amazing. It's very dramatic.'

2015 is Cavalleria rusticana-filled for Eva-Maria as in the spring she warmed up for her London performances of the opera with a run of a different production in New York:

'I'm really excited to sing Santuzza at the Metropolitan Opera and at Covent Garden. It's really interesting to reinvent yourself with Santuzza in each production. I feel extremely lucky.'

Eva-Maria's last Royal Opera House performances were as Maddalena di Coigny in Andrea Chénier — like Cavalleria rusticana, a verismo opera:

'Verismo is my favourite style of opera. I love it so much because it demands a lot of emotion, trying to stay true and giving a lot of yourself. It's less controlled in a way — I can go wild, which I love!'

Mozart’s final years were hobbled by debt, but he certainly wasn’t short of work. The premieres of his last two operas came almost on top of one another, La clemenza di Tito on 6 September 1791 and Die Zauberflöte a few weeks later on the 30th. Mozart had probably mostly finished Die Zauberflöte in July, and put it to one side as he speedily wrote Tito in time for the new emperor’s coronation. So Die Zauberflöte is perhaps only nominally a final opera – and yet its bewitching (if sometimes befuddling) story and achingly beautiful music have made Die Zauberflöte one of Mozart’s best-loved operas. Final opera or not, it’s an enchanting showcase of the composer’s genius.

Gioachino Rossini’s Guillaume Tell, 1829

Rossini was 32 when he moved to Paris in 1824. Here he wrote the sophisticated occasion piece Il viaggio a Reims to celebrate the coronation of the French king Charles X, adapted two of his Neapolitan operas for French audiences, and wrote two original works for the Paris Opéra: the comic Le Comte Ory in 1828, and the masterful Guillaume Tell in 1829. Today we see Guillaume Tell as the summit of Rossini’s career – a work of genius that fused French and Italian traditions in an innovative and highly idiosyncratic way, which not only anticipated the development of the hugely popular French grand opera but would also influence composers as diverse as Wagner and Offenbach. Rossini seems to have felt the same: he never composed another opera after Guillaume Tell.

Georges Bizet’s Carmen, 1875

Bizet’s biography reads like a catalogue of missed opportunities. His musical gifts were evident from an early age, but he spent much of his adult life scraping a living as a transcriber and rehearsal pianist. He abandoned many operatic projects, and the handful that did come to fruition rarely found success. Carmen received more performances during Bizet’s lifetime than any of his other works – but by his tragically early death on the evening of the 33rd performance on 3 June 1875, the opera was still deemed no more than a moderate succès de scandale. Three months later a new production in Vienna would launch Carmen on its way to becoming one of the most popular operas ever written.

Richard Wagner’s Parsifal, 1882

Wagner began work on his final opera as early as 1845, nearly forty years before its eventual premiere. The intervening years saw Wagner fundamentally alter the musical landscape, along the way gaining acolytes and raising hackles in equal measure. He also realized a long-cherished ambition to build an opera house specifically devoted to his own works, in Bayreuth, albeit at ruinous expense. Parsifal, a Bühnenweihfestspiel (‘stage-consecrating festival play’), was written specifically for the new theatre, and Wagner intended that it be performed only there for at least the next thirty years. He didn’t live to see his embargo broken after only a few years, as the world clamoured to hear this enigmatic, awe-inspiring final statement from an operatic master.

Giuseppe Verdi’s Falstaff, 1893

Verdi wrote his first comic opera, Un giorno di regno, in 1840. It was an unmitigated disaster, and almost led the young composer to renounce music altogether. Twenty-five operas and 53 years later, he decided to give it another go and produced Falstaff, arguably opera’s greatest comedy. Buoyed by the success of Otello, which Verdi wrote in collaboration with librettist Arrigo Boito, Verdi followed Boito’s suggestion to adapt The Merry Wives of Windsor. He and Boito worked together to craft a vivid portrait of Shakespeare’s scandalous, lecherous, life-loving knight, in a work of glorious vitality – an ebullient final testament from the 80-year-old composer.

The relay featured a series of backstage films, including rehearsal footage and interviews with members of the cast and creative team. If you missed the screening on the night, or just want to find out more about the production, you can watch the films here:

An Introduction to Guillaume Tell

Guillaume Tell depicts the Swiss battle for liberation from repressive Austrian occupation. ‘Rossini had a very clear idea of the beginning and end of the piece, and the journey of the people of Switzerland overcoming this oppression,’ explains Antonio Pappano. ‘The finale is of another world. It is music of an idea – of liberty, freedom, brotherhood, closeness, humanity – and it’s gigantic in how it develops from just a stirring, to a vision of how the world can be’.

Hear more from Gerald Finley (Guillaume Tell), Malin Byström (Mathilde), John Osborn (Arnold) and Sofia Fomina (Jemmy) about the characters and themes in the opera:

Singing the role of Arnold

Guillaume Tell features some of Rossini’s most inspired music, music that is harmonically daring and fiercely difficult for the singers. American tenor John Osborn performs the role of Arnold.

‘John Osborn embodies many things’, says Antonio. ‘The voice is a sweet light voice and yet it has a heroic quality, so he’s able to go from the most subtle bel canto singing, to the full-on, sparky, meaty type of singing that gets our blood boiling.’

Hear more from Antonio about the role, and from John Osborn about how he prepares to perform it:

The Role of the Chorus

‘We feel this really is a chorus opera’, says Katy Batho of The Royal Opera Chorus. ‘It’s crucial that the chorus are there because if there’s no people there’s no hero needed, and that’s one of our responsibilities in this production – to give Guillaume Tell something to fight for.’

‘The scale of the chorus and our involvement drives the rhythm, takes the opera forward and sets the scene’, says Simon Biazeck of the Extra Chorus. ‘That’s what French grand opera is about, and it's fascinating to hear Rossini do it.’

Hear more from Antonio Pappano and members of the Chorus about their role in Guillaume Tell:

You might be aware of very strong public reactions to a scene in the third act of Guillaume Tell (William Tell) where there is a depiction of a young woman being attacked and sexually humiliated by a group of officers.

We want to assure you that the public reaction to this scene has been of great concern to us and we take it very seriously. For this reason, we want to make sure that ticket holders are warned in advance of watching the show, that they will be seeing a scene depicting momentary nudity and violence of a threatening sexual nature.

We feel that the scene in question is not gratuitous but is founded in the libretto of the opera and in the context of the overall action of the piece. In the first act of the opera, we hear that a father has had to violently defend his daughter, resorting to murder, against an attempted abduction by an Austrian officer. In the third act the libretto suggests a brutal domination of the Swiss women by the Austrian military.

The production tries to convey the horrible reality of warfare. A tragic fact of war around the world is that women are sexually attacked and violated, and the director wanted to shine the spotlight on this and express disgust for such behaviour and any kind of sexual violence. It is made clear in the production that it is an act of brutality and inhumanity that is indefensible, and the hero Guillaume Tell intervenes to save the girl who is attacked, at the risk of his own and his son’s life.

As mentioned, the reactions have made a deep impact on us. It has never been our intention to offend members of our audience, but for the scene to prompt reflection on the consequences of such terrible crimes on their victims. However, we are aware that some audience members might not want to be exposed to a depiction of sexual violence in this way, and so we have written to ticket holders to make sure they feel properly warned about this short scene in act 3 in advance of watching the production.

We do hope that our production of Guillaume Tell will still make a strong impression in a good way.

For me, Guillaume Tell has the potential to be compelling drama, and Damiano Michieletto’s production, conducted by Antonio Pappano, succeeds on these terms. There is extraordinary nuance of expression in the vocal parts and the orchestra, there are moments that are very moving (notably the Act I trio, Tell’s Act III ‘Sois immobile’), thrilling (the finales to Acts I and II) and uplifting (the finale moments of the opera). Damiano has created a strong sense of direction and focus in this enormous sprawling drama: Tell and Arnold in particular making powerful journeys as characters – Tell ‘becoming’ Guillaume Tell the hero, Arnold finding inner strength, but ultimately damaged by the process of war; and Tell’s son Jemmy helps to bring different parts of the storyline together through added scenes of pantomime. The singers – soloists and choruses – and the enormous number of other personnel (assistant directors, stage managers, répétiteur, assistant conductors, vocal coach, movement coach and many more) have thrown themselves into the project, and taken the drama seriously. I’ve really enjoyed attending rehearsals and seeing the production evolve over the past six weeks: it has been a privilege. Here is Gerald Finley (Tell) writing about the process.

The opera and the production raise some interesting questions though, and it is on these that I’d like to focus in my final post – and invite you to join the conversation.

The setting has been updated from the 14th to the 20th century, and the symbolism of the Swiss Alps (purity, nobility and freedom) has been replaced with a much darker metaphor. The uprooted tree that dominates the stage for much of the opera stands for an uprooted people – and the rich soil is where their bodies are buried and new life is born.

Part of me misses the sublime tableaux of mountains that frame the opera, the tangible ever-presence of weather – notably the storm, but also the sunrises – and the sense of space (vertical as well as horizontal) that the setting implies. But the modern setting is a powerful updating: it brings the human drama to the surface, its details inspired by the libretto, and the brutality of the gun-wielding Austrian soldiers helps to sharpen the central conflict in a manner readily familiar to modern audiences who might be a bit hazy about the historical events. However, the ‘historical’ Tell who haunts the hero through the opera – and the footage from the comic book that scrolls across a screen at the beginning and the end of the opera – remind us of the legend, rooting us in its romance, and guide us through the details of a story that is much less known today than it was in the early 19th century. We arguably have the best of both worlds here.

Audiences in the 19th century would have gone to see the same opera many times, discovering more on each visit. Given that modern audiences – generally – will see a production only once, it has to be immediately legible and persuasive, and for me a strength of this production is that the drama is generally very clear, and actions motivated. But perhaps my attending of rehearsals has contributed to this. What did you make of it? Did it make sense? Were there specific aspects that you particularly enjoyed or disliked? What about those pantomimes that replaced the Act I and III ballets – did they help to develop the characters, or distract from the drama?

We are regularly told that modern (British) audiences are conservative, that anything other than Traviata, Bohème, Carmen, Figaro is a big financial risk. New works often struggle to find an audience, as do ‘new’ old works – operas such as Tell – that are no longer in the regular repertory. Does this mean that we have a responsibility to go to see new works, to ensure opera companies continue to schedule a wide repertory? Do opera companies and directors have particular responsibilities when staging unfamiliar works?

‘Given that this production will in all likelihood be the audience’s one and only chance to experience Chausson’s opera, this kind of treatment of the work seems especially unfair. … such pieces deserve productions that help the audience to grasp an unfamiliar work and do their very best for pieces which have frequently languished in the shadows’

Are special efforts required to make a new work accessible? Are there aspects of 19th-century operas that are particularly problematic for our modern taste – lengthy ballets, obscure political references, complex and involved plots, extravagant scenery, big static concertante ensembles, unabashed sentimentality, too much recitative? Do these need to be addressed by directors, or are we willing to accept operas on their own terms? What sorts of ‘help’ do we appreciate? From directors, from opera companies?

]]>http://www.roh.org.uk/news/guillaume-tell-join-the-conversation/feed174Watch: Antonio Pappano – ‘When I first studied Guillaume Tell I was hit as if by a thunderbolt’http://www.roh.org.uk/news/watch-antonio-pappano-when-i-first-studied-guillaume-tell-i-was-hit-as-if-by-a-thunderbolt
http://www.roh.org.uk/news/watch-antonio-pappano-when-i-first-studied-guillaume-tell-i-was-hit-as-if-by-a-thunderbolt#commentsThu, 25 Jun 2015 16:01:31 +0000Lottie Butlerhttp://www.roh.org.uk/?p=41232

‘When I first started studying this piece I was hit as if by a thunderbolt’, says Antonio.

The opera, which depicts the Swiss battle for liberation from repressive Austrian occupation, features some of Rossini’s most inspired music. The score, harmonically daring and fiercely difficult for the singers, evokes both the bucolic Swiss landscape and the menace of military occupation.

‘The piece uses a lot of colourful instrumentation to give the feeling of nature, the beauty and mystery of it, and the soil and earth that gives us our country. We’re in Switzerland and so it’s mountains’, explains Antonio. ‘In the score, you hear off-stage horns from different sides – Rossini is using these effects to create the aura of the mountains. I have to figure out where to put these to get the effect of near and far, which is difficult backstage at Covent Garden!’

The overture, the ‘Lone Ranger’, is one of the most distinctive themes in classical music.

‘The Lone Ranger bit represents something quite menacing’, says Antonio. ‘It’s a military idea, and of course this piece is about trying to yank the yoke of occupation off. If you hear the music in that sense, you hear the menace of the Austrians and absolute tyranny of the soldiers and the regime.’

Although the chorus dominates Guillaume Tell and there are relatively few solo numbers, the soloists nevertheless have demanding roles. Their contribution is essential to the emotional power of the work and Rossini manages to blend the traditions of French and Italian opera in a compelling way that was to prove influential on Verdi and Wagner.

As critics at the 1829 premiere pointed out, the French language lends itself to declamation rather than lyrical expression. French taste, quite different from that in Italy, demanded that the words be comprehensible – not smothered in fioriture (embellishment) – and logical progression of the drama was more important than the abstract beauty of the voice. However, Rossini found a new path, blending these very different traditions. Critics were intrigued at how he managed to remain ‘Rossini’, while adapting his methods for French taste. There are fewer roulades in the vocal parts, more richness in the instrumentation, fewer developed crescendos (his trademark), and he took care not to repeat phrases without variation. These, for contemporary critics, were the defining features of Guillaume Tell.

To the French critics Rossini was a sort of Napoleon of the Opéra. He ‘visited our country, studied our taste, then after doing service among our ranks he has gradually become our general; soon we will see him as consul, then emperor’. Tell was welcomed as genuinely ‘italo-français’. One of the key features of this new style – which Meyerbeer would develop in the coming decades – was its fluid, through-composed drama. Italian opera of the time offered a stop-start series of closed arias and duets, linked by recitative. Tell departs from this format and moves fluidly between choral, solo and ensemble numbers, with linking declamatory dialogue to draw the audience into the drama. Indeed, some of the most arresting vocal expression comes in these declamatory passages. As Gerald Finley has observed about ‘Sois immobile’, sung with a cello obbligato as Tell prepares to shoot the arrow off his son’s head, it is almost Wagnerien in its strength of purpose – and heartbreaking in its direct expression.

French audiences in 1829 were also taken by the complexity of expression captured in the ensembles. Consider this critic’s description of the Act I duet ‘Où vas-tu?’, as Tell tries to persuade Arnold to fight for his country:

Music has never expressed with such precision: not only does it translate the words, it offers a complete revelation of the two minds that speak. See how Arnold hesitates, falters when he addresses Tell. He is ashamed of his love [for Mathilde], he doesn’t know how to excuse it. Also, before he speaks, you hear a little fragment of ritournelle [a dance form], which is the image of interior deliberation. In contrast Tell, who does not deliberate, constantly interrupts with closed phrases: no introductory ritournelles for him; rather he enters in the middle of Arnold’s phrases and concludes them brusquely. If this dialogue is a masterpiece of energy and expression, the asides to Melchtahl have a suavity of melody. Never has Rossini found such a phrase of love and honour as ‘Ah, Mathilde, idole de mon âme’.

This is testament to the way in which Parisians listened. John Osborn has explained how there is so much more nuance of expression in the French language (he has recently performed the role of Arnold in an Italian production); and in rehearsals Antonio Pappano has helped the singers and orchestra to express every detail with accuracy and feeling. Of course, we miss some of this as a modern audience: even if we understand French, and even if the diction is superb, we don’t necessarily catch every word, and unlike 19th-century audiences we don’t generally come back night after night to see the same opera. However, if we listen attentively, the detail is there. The Act II trio, where Arnold learns from Tell and Walter of the death of his father, similarly drew admiration from 19th-century audiences, and detailed analyses of the emotions being expressed by each character. And then as now, when Arnold sings the words ‘Mon père, tu m’as dû maudire… je ne te verrai plus’ (father, you must have cursed me … I will not see you again) ‘it is impossible not to feel tears form’.

Some of the most thrilling moments come in the concertante act finales, when soloists and chorus join together. One of the most powerful is that concluding Act I: Rodolphe and his soldiers arrive too late to stop Tell rowing Leuthold across the lake to safety: he orders the pillaging of the village, and when Melcthal encourages resistance, he is seized. The quartet of Jemmy, Hedwige (Tell’s wife), the fisherman Ruodi and Melcthal – joined by Rodolphe – sing defiantly in front of the choruses of Austrian soldiers and Swiss villagers. Although it is essentially a static tableau, the emotional tumult is overpowering in the final stretta (fast-paced closing movement of a finale), which is powered by a galloping rhythm that verges on being out of control; the efforts of the soloists to be heard above the choruses adds to the thrill. In rehearsals Pappano pays particular attention to rhythmic precision – the contrasting elements in the orchestra (quaver articulation in the strings, punctuating chords from the woodwind and brass, syncopated percussion) and in the vocal parts (soloists, choruses) – to capture what he has described as the score’s ‘fever’.

In my next couple of posts, once performances are under way, I will be offering some thoughts about the production, and very much look forward to hearing your own views.